


손가락

by Hipsterian



Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: Cutesy, Feelings Realization, Hook-Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipsterian/pseuds/Hipsterian
Summary: When the right fingers touch the right heart.Or Jinwoo has had his legs numb after an accident but Minho's fingers make him feel again.
Relationships: Kim Jinwoo/Song Minho | Mino
Kudos: 5





	손가락

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dears!
> 
> English is not my native tongue, so sorry for all the mistakes.   
> And I don't know what else to say. So I'll leave now.  
> Have fun and thanks for reading.

**손가락**

**Songarak**

(Finger)

"My leg looks like minced meat," Jinwoo mumbles, hands busy on the sheets, trying to cover the mess, the aftermath of an old accident. Minho halts him midway, holding with sweet fists and strong glance, taking away the bed linen, revealing what it is underneath.

"It's beautiful,” he replies, glimpses carefully, eyes dancing over the surface, darting at the wonder revealed. “Everything about you is beautiful, don't you ever hide it, not from me,” Minho says, voice deep and velvety, clouded with untamed desire, curling between Jinwoo's long, pale legs, thumbs dancing over scars, drawing, idly, the patterns, following silver treats that make him shiver. He stares into his eyes, reverently, devotedly, and, then, slowly, he kisses his calf, his ankle, up he goes, lips trembling, outlining the traces of fading runes that tell a story of pain and lost and achievements, his tongue tasting his flesh, the flavour of old scars coloured in silver, carved on him like art. It has been years and the redness has subdued but the vestiges are still visible and Minho finds them entrancing, lovely, just like Jinwoo is (just as everything about him is). Jinwoo sighs, letting him watch the wounds, letting him stare at the vastness of his skin, all exposed and displayed, pure and milky, smooth under his palm, with fingertips slowly caressing, hot and sweet, a myriad of feelings cramming his flesh, his heart holding in all the pleasure that he is receiving. It is the first time that Jinwoo has let anyone contemplate the ruin that his body is but Minho is contemplating it so kindly, the shyness fades away, replaced by all the sensations that are arousing in him, grounding him between Minho's arms and the bed. 

He travels up to his knees, weak and tender beneath his ministrations, under his indolent tongue, eyes solely in Jinwoo, on the warm rose rising in his cheeks, the way his lips are bitten nervously, his eyes fluttering, flicking between startled at his actions and something deep, something that makes Minho relish into, something that matches the lust in him. Minho smirks before it happens. A jolt, followed by a spasm in limbs that have been quiet for the past three years.

Jinwoo looks at his them, his hands reaching, palpating the surface.

"It can't be!" he mumbles, trickling, pinching, feeling after so long, his legs so long numb and frozen. Minho kisses it again and Jinwoo's eyes open, big, round, glimmering, precious as they are, living.

"That's great!" Minho exclaims, brushing gently his long limb, goosebumps all over his flesh. He moves up to cup his small face, finds his lips, tastes them slowly, circling with his arms his tiny frame, pushing him to rest on his shoulders, caged safely while tears drop from his eyes (shock and surprise shaking him). Minho peppers pecks within the hollow of his blades, he valley between his clavicle, up to his neck, tracing all the lonely freckles, feeling rain on his flesh. Jinwoo sobs over his cheeks, droplets running cold, and Minho presses his fingers on them, sinks them under water, hushes him with soft kisses falling like storms and ashes.

"I should call the doctors… They would like to know" Jinwoo mumbles, and Minho agrees, nodding. "Maybe you should... Stop, please? I'm sorry to leave you hanging again… I want this as much as you do," he digresses, feelings Minho’s hands everywhere, feeling the urge, the need. But he has also felt his hands on his limbs, the touch of silk, warm and firm, where nothing before could be sensed, in barren patches of insensitive skin. Minho snickers.

"Yeah, yeah, I should stop," he says, biting gently his earlobes, "don't want to mess up," and his hand travels down to his legs again, making him shiver, feeling the contact, the strong pulse of Minho's beating over his flesh. It is soft and mild and Jinwoo doesn't want this sensation to go, wants Minho's hands on his thighs, touching and caressing and stroking until melting his bones, wants his mouth and his tongue, feel the wetness, the cold blow of his breath, being a painting mess. He has been longing for this moment, to have Minho in his bed, to pant his name like a prayer, to be satiated, but this will have to wait, even when Minho isn’t cooperating, ravishing his jaw, nipping his chin, lips, all the contours of his face.

It's been years since the last time he was able to sense something, years since the scars were formed, the damage done. He has been prostrated, dazed, legs moving but numb to the touch, to the sun, and with just one look, with just one touch, something has ignited, a miracle has occurred. A miracle named Song Minho. 

But he has to untangle himself from Minho to make the call. He nuzzles his nose with Minho's, brushing the lonely spot and, slowly, hands still on him, pushing him up gently, uncaging, arms stretching, hands searching until he takes his phone out, fishing it between the mess of sheets and clothes piled on the ground. He returns his undivided attention to Minho in a minute, tangles himself alongside his warm, hot body, smirking, pressing himself against Minho's chest, kissing his mouth lazily, slackly, with love and care.

"The doctor said the nerves and muscles are getting back to their original form," he explains, amid breathless making-out, "you are magic," he purrs, gasping under his tongue, the kiss deep and running down, his smile broad, all over Minho's.

"Always glad to be of help," Minho jokes, his hands on his neck, reeling him in, Jinwoo on top of him, pinning him against the mattress. Minho pushes him up, fingers wrapped around his hips, lays him on his side, and he turns around, facing him, his thumbs buried beneath his soft flocks of rose hair.

He is breathtaking, his eyes gleaming under the moonlight, his lips abused, a soft tint of red, the mirroring desire painted on the curb of his edges. He wants him, wants to capture the moment, to print it in his mind, preserve it in his memory: not just the taste of cherries swirling in his mouth, but the softness of his expression, the way he grasps into him, whimpers with anticipated delight, how he is always so kind and sweet, how he has been standing by his side, giving him his undivided attention - how Minho wants to be seen by Jinwoo, to have his affection, his feelings, he craves for it more than he lusts over his pretty frame, now bare under his caresses. And maybe Minho is clinging into him, hampering a blooming bound with lust and crave (but this feeling feels unavoidable, and he lets it sink into him, wash away his hunger, replacing it with the wonder that is Jinwoo, the work of art that he is: his soft voice, his amused laugh, the fireflies that loiter in his eyes; he is a marvel and it’s not the first time Minho considers to ask him out, to be more than just causal fuck-ups and late-night snacks).

"Maybe it's a sign," Jinwoo mumbles, enthralled, absent-minded, lost in thought. His glance is painted with fireworks and shooting stars and Minho stares into it, counting stellar. 

"A sign of what?" Minho drags him closer, kisses him eagerly, all soft around the edges, pleading. Jinwoo gazes at his eyes, the smile still in place, untouched. Jinwoo is all warm and cuddly and Minho snuggles closer, feeling the heat, listening to his heart-beats.

"That I should keep you," he says, lips a breath away, and Minho tilts his head, surprised, noses bumping, slowly brushing, eyes tracing, following intently, blooming with more than just desire, with hues that sounds like love.

"I like that. I like it a lot," and he seals a promise with his lips tenderly gracing the palm of Jinwoo's hands, fingers curling all over his knuckles, holding him reverently. "I would like to be kept by you all my life, maybe even more," and Jinwoo giggles tickle his flesh like bells, overjoyed.

“You are magic,” Jinwoo repeats, fingers tracing his forehead, drawing the lines of his neck, the black ink of his tattoos all across his chest, “it’s not my legs but myself. It never crossed my mind that I would feel this again, that I would want to be seen by someone else, to be touched by others' fingers, not after him and what happened, and yet… I want you, I want your fingers on me, gracing all of my skin,” he says, embarrassed, his cheeks hot against Minho’s clavicle, hidden, pressed towards the safety cage that is Minho's arms, hands holding him in place, holding him alive.

Minho rubs his temples, smooths the creases of worries, replaces them with smooches.

“They say that my fingers are magic, indeed,” and Jinwoo chuckles, holding them, kissing them reverently.

"They must be because they are making me feel very well and pleased," he grumbles, sucking them with lust carved inside his eyes and an eager smile all over his face.


End file.
